


all i've ever known

by cacowhistle



Series: ad meliora [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Hybrid SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Mod SMP, Powers SMP
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Sickfic, for a bit at least, no beta we die like dsmp!wilbur, the gang meets and builds a little community!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacowhistle/pseuds/cacowhistle
Summary: The phoenix is a creature of rebirth.It catches fire like it’s its damn birthright, burning from the inside out until there’s nothing left but ash and the seeds of its future, planted among the embers.Some souls, in this world, are very much the same.They burn themselves out and rise from the ash again, and the cycle begins anew.or;Tommy has never had a home. One finally comes in the form of a phantom named Wilbur.
Relationships: Niki | Nihachu & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: ad meliora [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2157228
Comments: 15
Kudos: 165





	all i've ever known

The phoenix is a creature of rebirth.

It catches fire like it’s its damn birthright, burning from the inside out until there’s nothing left but ash and the seeds of its future, planted among the embers.

Some souls, in this world, are very much the same.

They burn themselves out and rise from the ash again, and the cycle begins anew.

* * *

Tommy has never quite had a home, truth be told.

He’s migrated from place to place, sure he’s made plenty of nests, but they’ve never quite felt welcoming. Never quite felt right. He comes and goes from flocks, trying to find a warm place to stay the night, struggling to keep up with group after group. His wings just aren’t strong enough to keep up--he can hardly fly, they don’t quite support him, and so he lags behind and eventually tells them to _go on ahead, I’ll catch up,_ before giving up entirely on the notion that he will stay, this time.

This is why he ends up alone, curled up in a cave with a pitiful, dying campfire the only source of light. He can’t sleep--he can _never_ sleep, he doesn’t know _why,_ this is the fourth night in a row of fitful drowsing in the open mouth of a cave. To make matters worse, he’s freezing despite his campfire, shivering and sweating. He’d gotten caught in the rain earlier, and hadn’t managed to find shelter until hours later. Already, he can feel himself catching a cold of some sort. All he can hope is that if he is still and silent, mobs won’t find him. Thankfully, the light does enough to repel them, for the most part.

At least until it’s gone.

He wakes from his restless dozing at a high, echoing, keening cry. Instantly, he’s reaching for his sword--an old, battered, iron thing, stolen from an abandoned village.

_(It had still been smoldering when he’d arrived, the earth split and broken, green peals of smoke and smog coating the ground like fog. A shattered portal nearby had already set his nerves alight with anxiety. He hurried through the rubble, finding anything of use, before continuing onwards.)_

His campfire is little more than smoldering embers, crimson against the pitch black coals that remain like dregs of tea at the bottom of a mug _(when was the last time he held a mug, even?)_ and Tommy, fear gripping his heart like the bony, cold hands of a skeleton, spots the phantoms circling high overhead, eyes all aglow with a bright chartreuse in the inky black sky.

Tommy stands frozen in the mouth of the cave for a moment, eyes wide as he stares at the murder of phantoms, all circling and bony and halfway transparent against the dark, dark sky, nearly impossible to spot up above him. He can hear the growling and groaning of mobs in the nearby woods, as well, and it’s either light a torch to repel the mobs on the ground, or pray the grounded ones don’t get too close before the phantoms lose interest or he… kills them, somehow.

He doesn’t have a bow, and his wings aren’t strong enough for him to fly up and attack them himself, especially not in his shivering, already weakened state.

He hears the phantom cry, and watches them begin to swoop with wide eyes. He lifts his sword with shaking arms, and braces himself. His sword cuts through the rotting, ghostly flesh, gets caught in the skeletal foundations of the monster, and he slams it against the ground with as much strength as he can muster. The undead bird lets out a guttural cry, writhing on his blade, impaled. Tommy shakes it off of his sword and kicks the dying monster away, flapping his wings to keep himself upright.

The other two phantoms continue to circle, watching him with bright green, glowing eyes. Mobs will come because of the noise, he knows, he only has so much time, but he can’t bring himself to lift his sword again, limbs heavy with exhaustion and sickness. His arms shake and he stumbles backwards, bracing himself against the cave wall.

He hears the phantoms screech, the whistling of the wind through their rotting wings, and watches them swoop towards him. He lifts his arms, sword forgotten on the ground, to defend himself, preparing for the impact.

It never comes.

There’s a screech and a shout, and the wet _thunk_ of something hitting the ground--the wounded, shrill cry of a phantom, and a retreating shriek. Tommy peeks past his arms to see one of the phantoms on the ground, twitching with an arrow through its skull, the magic in its eyes spluttering and flickering to nothingness. A pale, humanoid figure stomps on the other grounded phantom from where Tommy had stabbed it, cracking the spine and extinguishing the lights in the eyesockets of the skull.

The figure turns to him, eyes wide and burning that same chartreuse, but they turn warm and brown as the pale form becomes more human, transparent fingers turning solid as the young man approaches him, slowly.

“Are you okay?” He asks, voice soft but echoing loudly in the now-silent clearing.

Tommy realizes he’s shaking, then, so badly he can hardly stay on his feet. He sways unsteadily, reaching out to blindly grasp at the wall for some sort of balance.

“Yeah,” he croaks, eyes wide. He isn’t going to start crying--it--it wasn’t _that_ scary, surely he’s not _that_ shaken by the whole ordeal, he’s… he’s had far worse.

“Oh,” the man says, startled, “shit, you should sit down, man.”

Tommy’s already begun sinking to his knees, tears brimming in his eyes. He draws his knees up to his chest, curling up against the cave wall. The man quickly crosses to his side, hand hovering over his head before it smooths the hair back from his forehead, ghosting over the messy cut torn from his temple to his cheek from where a skeleton had clawed him earlier after he’d snapped its bow. The blood is all dried and crusted in his hair, already, he hasn’t had the time or energy or… strength, really, to clean himself up.

The man sets to work without a word, building up a campfire now that the phantoms have been dispersed. The light and the warmth is welcoming, and Tommy leans towards it unwittingly as the man fuels it.

“Have you eaten?” He asks, softly. Tommy frowns, trying to think of the last time he did.

“... earlier,” he mumbles, sinking back against the cold stone, feeling almost embarrassed.

“Okay, um, do you prefer potatoes or carrots?” The man has begun rifling through his pack. Tommy squints, suspicious.

“... carrots,” he says, frowning. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man pauses, halfway through pulling out a pan and a few carrots from his pack. He stares at Tommy, eyes wide, and Tommy notes the gaunt, ghostly structure of his face, semi-transparent in the light of the campfire. It reminds him of the phantoms. It frightens him, a bit, but not enough to scare him away.

He smiles, all sharp teeth. “My name’s Wilbur. What about you?”

A pause. “... Tommy.”

Wilbur and Tommy. Something about it just seems _right._

Tommy curls up closer to the fire, growing braver by the minute. Wilbur hums to himself as he begins to cut up the carrots and roast them, and Tommy watches with wide eyes. He feels safer already, in this guy’s presence, and he’s known him for all of twenty minutes.

“Do you mind if I help you get cleaned up, or do you wanna do that on your own?” Wilbur asks, glancing up at Tommy. He just blinks at him.

“... what,” he says, less of a question and more of a statement, because he isn’t quite sure what he means.

Wilbur raises his eyebrows. “You’ve got a nasty cut there, mate. I can help you patch it up, if you want?”

Oh. Right. Tommy lifts a hand to his brow, frowning slightly as his fingers come away with dried flakes of blood sticking to them. “It’s fine,” he says, but he’s so fucking tired, and he can’t quite bring himself to even dig through his bag for his water and a rag.

“... still kinda hurts,” he mumbles, cheeks flushing with shame and embarrassment. Wilbur doesn’t chide or make fun, however, just looks concerned and crosses to stand beside him, gently pressing the back of his hand against Tommy’s forehead. His hand is fucking freezing, and Tommy leans into the touch without really thinking about it.

“Shit, man, you’re burning up.” Wilbur furrows his brow, worrying at his lower lip for a moment, then: “Stay put, okay? I can help, it’s really not a problem.”

Tommy wants to argue, but he’s never really been cared for in this way before _(so why does this feel so familiar?)_ and he kind of wants to see how it feels. It’d be nice to have someone here to help him, for once, so he nods and curls into himself a bit, watching the fire and listening to Wilbur’s pattering about the cave and his muttering to himself.

He can’t quite fall asleep, still, but it’s easier to fall into that drowsy, not-quite-aware-of-himself state, eyes half-lidded and slumped against the cave wall.

He loses a few minutes. He comes back to himself to someone humming and a cool, damp cloth against his forehead, gently cleaning the cut that marrs the skin there. Tommy whines, softly, at how it stings, and there’s a hushed, whispered apology.

“I’m almost done, mate,” Wilbur murmurs, and Tommy lets himself drift again.

Another stretch of time, and then there’s sizzling and someone gently shaking his shoulder. “You should eat. Even if it’s just a little bit.”

He blinks at the plate in front of him, a small, ceramic little thing. There’s a cup to match, though the dishes are anything but matching, clearly taken from two entirely different sets. He sniffs--gods, when was the last time he had actually had something cooked for him? He doesn’t remember--maybe the kind woman he’d stayed with by the sea about… hm. He doesn’t remember. It was a while ago, though. Wilbur’s set to work cooking something for himself as well, though the smell of cooking meat doesn’t quite interest Tommy as much.

The carrots are painfully mediocre. They’re the best thing Tommy’s ever eaten.

He lets himself drift again, once he’s done.

He loses more time, this time, he’s not sure how much. All he knows is that one minute he’s watching Wilbur cook and the next there’s faint sunlight filtering through the mouth of the cave, and he’s curled up on something soft and there’s something soft on top of him in return, and his wings shift a bit to lift the blanket a bit as he stretches with a soft grumble, spine aching and feeling far too warm with all these blankets around him.

His head _pounds_ as he tries to sit up, and he freezes where he sits, bracing himself against the cold stone floor with his hands. He slowly lowers himself back down to the floor, closing his eyes against the dizziness, and rolls halfway out of the blankets to press himself against the cold stone, as if that alone will help soothe the burning in his skin.

He rests his chin on his arms, folded under him, stretches his wings out and gazes out the mouth of the cave. Wilbur is nowhere to be seen, and fear jolts through him, making it past the headache and the feverish fog in his brain.

_Did he leave me?_

Tommy casts his gaze around the cave, eyes catching on the blankets that are not his and the adventuring pack propped up against the opposite wall that also does not belong to him. Rationally, he knows that Wilbur likely hasn’t gone far, then, but Tommy is _alone_ again and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He tries to sit up again--more slowly, this time, bracing himself against the cave wall, and leans forward to peer out the mouth of the cave.

The sunlight hurts his eyes, a bit, and his headache only grows stronger, but he grits his teeth and pushes on, looking around to see any signs of the young man.

The grass of the clearing sways, gently, in the breeze, the leaves of the surrounding oak trees rustling. There’s a big, sturdy oak across the clearing that Tommy thinks would be quite good for climbing, if he could get to it maybe he could take a look around, see if he can spot Wilbur from above. There’s the faint sound of birdsong, wrens and warblers singing sweet in the early morning, voices dripping with musicality like dew on the grass. The clearing, otherwise, is empty and quiet.

He’s about to drag himself to his feet when he hears familiar humming, then singing, just as sweet as the songbirds nearby. Tommy refuses to admit to himself how relieved he is to hear it.

“Wilbur?” He croaks, and holy shit, his throat _hurts_ , why is it so dry?

“Tommy!” Wilbur’s voice is far closer than he expected, and suddenly he’s just _there,_ in the mouth of the cave, as if he materialized out of the stone. Tommy stares at him, eyes wide.

“What the fuck,” he says, and Wilbur grins.

“What?”

“You came out of the fucking wall?”

Wilbur snorts, beginning to rifle through his bag. “No, I was outside. I could come out of the wall if you wanted, though.”

Tommy stares at him. “What the fuck,” he repeats, and Wilbur laughs.

“I’m like, a ghost, sort of,” Wilbur says, wiggling his fingers. “Like. Part phantom, almost? I can walk through walls and shit. I do burn if I stand directly in the sun, though, so I have to like, go invisible or phase through the ground to walk around during the day.”

“Oh.” Tommy frowns. “So you’re like. Part mob?”

“I mean, you seem to be, too, considering the wings and all.”

“There’s a difference between a phantom and a bird,” Tommy deadpans, and Wilbur just shrugs.

“We’re more alike than you’d think,” he says with a grin. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

He hums, absently, nestling back into the blankets, feathers ruffling. Between the headache and the way he keeps shivering… “... like shit.”

Wilbur’s playful, shit-eating grin slips into concern far more quickly than Tommy expects it to. He picks his way over to where Tommy’s curled up, reaching forward to feel his forehead. His hand is cool, and Tommy can’t help but find comfort in it, against the dread and the uneasy feeling set in his gut. He wants to trust this, but how long until Wilbur leaves him here?

“... and I brought back some water for you.” Tommy blinks back into focus at the latter half of Wilbur’s statement. He stares up at him, eyes wide.

“... thanks,” he mumbles, reaching up to take the glass bottle Wilbur’s holding out. His hands shake, but he manages to keep from spilling it.

It’s cold, and soothes his throat, and he focuses on that instead of the nausea and anxiety writhing in his stomach. Wilbur smooths the hair back from his forehead and checks his wound, before moving to set up the campfire again.

“I don’t think you’re really fit for walking,” Wilbur says, softly, “unless you think you can?”

“I can,” Tommy grumbles, glaring at Wilbur from across the fire. Wilbur raises an eyebrow, but Tommy lifts his chin and holds his gaze.

Wilbur hums, seemingly lost in thought for a few moments. “... hm. Well, staying in this cave won’t do you much good, so if you really think you’re gonna be okay, we could move somewhere else? There’s a lake nearby with this old, empty house by it that I was thinking about fixing up.”

Tommy stares at him, frowning slightly. “... okay?”

A plate with eggs and chopped up potatoes gets put in front of him. Wilbur ruffles his hair. He swats weakly at the retreating hand, and isn’t quite sure if he liked that.

“It’s about half a day’s walk from here,” Wilbur says, beginning to pack up his things as Tommy eats. “Once you’re done, we can head out?”

This is… weird. When does he plan on leaving? Why does he say all this like he just expects Tommy to follow along?

… why does Tommy _want_ to?

“Yeah,” he says without even really thinking about it, “okay.”

They set out into the early morning dew, and Tommy does not look back.

* * *

It takes a day, rather than half a day, to get to the lake, on account of how Tommy collapses halfway through the trip because of how dizzy he gets. He comes back to reality being carried in Wilbur’s arms, and he would be ashamed and embarrassed if he wasn’t so fucking _tired_ and if everything didn’t ache so much.

Wilbur acts like a proper mother hen after that, and Tommy doesn’t like how he _enjoys_ it so much. He _wants_ Wilbur to care about him. He’s never given a shit about things like that before.

Once they reach the old house Wilbur was talking about, Wilbur helps him get settled after making sure the bed in the house isn’t infested with bugs or some other nasty, awful thing. He lets him have the attic, for now, and Tommy sleeps late into the evening, waking up with a clearer head but a pounding headache, still.

It’s not _good_ sleep. It’s restless and he’s pretty sure he woke up a few times in the middle, but he still _slept,_ he’s pretty sure, and he doesn’t know how he managed it.

He carefully picks his way down the old, rickety wooden stairs. The house is cleaner than when they first got here--Wilbur seems to have gone around and scrubbed every surface clean of dust and dirt, the windows in the front have been cleaned. Dust does not stir when Tommy ruffles his feathers and stretches his wings, and he pokes his way out onto the porch, upon finding the house rather empty.

Wilbur is sitting by the shore of the lake, talking softly.

There’s a lady poking her head out of the water beside him.

Wilbur glances over as the door creaks open, and his eyes light up--glowing a faint yellow-green--upon spotting Tommy, hovering there uncertainly.

“Tommy!” He pats the ground beside him. “Come meet Niki!”

He carefully makes his way down to the shore, settling in the sand beside Wilbur. The phantom wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders like it’s as easy as breathing for him, and Tommy finds he doesn’t quite mind it. He leans into it, doesn’t note Wilbur’s faint, concerned hum as he presses his hand to his forehead again.

“This is Tommy,” he says, and the lady smiles at him.

“Hello!” She holds a webbed hand out for him to shake. “I’m Niki. It’s nice to meet you, Tommy.”

Tommy hesitates, but takes it. “Are you a fish?”

Niki’s eyes widen, startled, and Tommy is almost afraid he’s fucked up, but then Niki laughs, delighted and amused, lowering herself deeper into the water so only her eyes poke out, gleaming in the low dusklight. Her pupils are slitted like a cat’s, and Tommy finds himself enamored.

“No,” she says, voice carrying despite the fact that her mouth is submerged, “I’m a _shark.”_

Wilbur laughs, and Tommy’s chest feels lighter, despite the sickness.

Niki proves to be a lovely neighbor. She keeps an eye on Tommy over the next few days as he recovers from his fever, days spent with Tommy lounging in the sun by the water and Niki splashing around and keeping his spirits up. Wilbur works on the house during all that time, Niki occasionally giving him advice and gathering materials he can’t quite get to in the sun. The days pass peacefully, but Tommy can’t help the nerves and the fear that he’s going to wake up one morning and have all of this be gone.

“Niki,” he says on the third day, “you aren’t gonna leave, right?”

Niki blinks at him, eyes wide, the smattering of pink scales across her cheeks and under her eyes gleaming in the sunlight. “Why would I leave? It’s nice here. You and Wilbur are nice, too.”

He picks at the grass underneath him, tearing a blade down the middle. “... you promise?”

Something in her face softens.

“Yeah,” she says, softly, “I promise, Tommy.”

She has the decency to not bring it up to Wilbur when he joins them, later that evening. They splash around and Tommy dumps a bucket of water on Wilbur’s head and it feels like home, a little bit, this joking and playing around, and all Tommy wants is for this to last forever.

As the days pass by, he begins to believe that it might.

* * *

It’s about a week later, when Tommy feels well enough to traverse the woods on his own, that he finds him.

He’s out searching for materials, to build his own sort of… home, he supposes, near Wilbur’s house. He’d stay with him, but the attic is growing cramped, and Tommy much prefers the open air, so he’s going to build something for himself… with Wilbur’s help, probably, but still something for himself.

He’s having quite a nice day, truth be told, at least until the ground shifts beneath him and he gets thrown to the ground with a yelp, dirt and pebbles being sprayed down at his face. His wings curl up and around to shield him, and when the dust settles he peers past his tawny feathers with wide eyes to see--

There’s a boy standing there, eyes just as wide as his own, short and sturdy with little bits of earth floating around him.

“What the fuck,” Tommy says, very much a statement instead of a question.

“Holy shit,” the kid says, “you have wings?”

The kid’s name is Tubbo, or so he says, and he spends the next ten minutes poking and prodding at Tommy’s wings and asking all sorts of questions. By the time he’s asking about flight, Tommy’s decided he hates him, and by the time he’s said _race you to the lake,_ Tommy wants to keep him.

Tommy wins the race. Tubbo doesn’t bitch about it like Wilbur would--just grins, and says “Again?”

Tubbo is part Shulker, he tells Tommy later that day, the two of them sitting by the shore of the lake while Wilbur and Niki work on a tunnel for Niki into Wilbur’s house.

“I can like, control the earth and stuff,” Tubbo says, flinging his hands outwards. The dirt and the pebbles begin to tremble, before settling again.

“Huh,” Tommy says, staring at the small chunk of stone that Tubbo pulls up from the ground and lets float around his hand. “How do you make it float?”

Tubbo shrugs. “Dunno. I just can. It stays like that, unless I try to stop it.” The stone falls back to the ground with a thud, after a few seconds.

Tommy stares out at the open field on the other side of the lake, and gets an idea.

He gets to his feet, pulling Tubbo up with him. “Help me make a floating island,” he says.

Tubbo’s eyes light up. “Okay!”

By the time they’re done, Tubbo has decided to stay. Tommy helps him build his house late into the night.

 _Yeah,_ he nods to himself, _this is right._

* * *

Wilbur isn’t quite sure what to think of the settlement they’ve begun to build.

He’s been hanging out with Tommy for roughly two weeks, now, and the home he’s built feels more like a _home_ because of him. He _likes_ this kid, this kid that started out frail and sick and weak and quickly became the brightest, most _lively_ person Wilbur’s ever met. He’s not afraid to admit how much he likes this kid--Tommy is genuinely a fucking delight to be around, and Wilbur _wants_ him around. He hasn’t wanted someone around in such a long time.

It helps that they click so quickly. They’re finishing each other’s thoughts and laughing about stupid shit that seems so familiar within _days,_ and Wilbur feels like nobody’s ever really understood him more than Tommy does.

At least, until he meets Phil.

Phil seems familiar in a similar way. He sees the man on the mountain with fluffy black wings and his heart jumps, eyes widening. and he feels like he should know who this ought to be. He pops up out of the ground with a _hello!_ and Phil jumps, drops his sword, and Wilbur apologizes through his laughter.

“Christ, mate,” the winged man says, “don’t… scare me like that.”

_(He misses the way Phil chokes back a strangled gasp, the way his hands flit to the tips of his wings.)_

_(He does note how the feathers seem to be a bit irregular towards the ends, as if the wings have healed from some injury that left them crippled and useless for years.)_

“Sorry,” Wilbur says, grinning, “my name’s Wilbur, who are you?”

The man is silent for a few moments, looking Wilbur up and down. Finally, he says: “Phil.”

Yeah. Wilbur nods. That sounds right.

“Well, Phil,” Wilbur says, all charm and a bright, irresistible grin, “we’ve got a little settlement comin’ along around the lake just that way, if you wanted to take a look around and settle down for the night?” The _stay with us_ goes unspoken, hangs heavy in the air around them as he turns to lead the way back to the lake.

_(He doesn’t notice the stunned, distraught look Phil is giving him, the way his hands shake around the hilt of the enchanted netherite blade on his belt._

_He doesn’t realize that no matter what he says, Phil is going to stay._

_He doesn’t know why he wants that so much.)_

He knows Phil will follow him. He just isn’t quite sure why.

“Oh, Tommy’s gonna _love_ you,” Wilbur prattles on, grinning, “he’s got wings, too, can’t really fly too well with ‘em though. They’re way smaller than yours.”

Phil’s breath hitches, at that, but he falls in step behind Wilbur, amused and fond at the notion of _Tommy_ of all people taking after him. This isn’t a coincidence, none of this can be a coincidence, how ironic that he finds his boys again, after so many years? This is either a sick prank from a cruel god or the greatest act of kindness divinity has ever shown him, and he cannot determine which it really is.

“I’m sure they’re great,” he says, smiling. Wilbur nods.

“They are! All cute n’ fluffy--maybe you can help him fucking take care of them, since he preens like, once a week,” Wilbur shakes his head, “but yeah, I think you’ll like everyone.”

Phil hums, gazes out over the land.

He’s certain he will.

Phil takes to the little floating island Tommy and Tubbo made. He takes to Tommy and Tubbo, too, and Wilbur knows that things are how they should be when Phil teases and pokes fun and offers to help Tommy preen, and Tommy decides that they’ll be neighbors. Phil doesn’t even think to argue.

By the time night falls, Wilbur is already jokingly calling Phil _dad._

* * *

The sixth comes in the form of a tall, familiar enderian figure. Tommy doesn’t know where he knows him from, but he’s already gliding across the river to help shelter the kid from the rain. The enderman hybrid glances up, avoiding his gaze, but hums in response to Tommy holding a wing over his hunched form, blocking the worst of the rain.

“Thanks,” he says, the two of them ducking under a tree.

“Who the fuck are you?” Tommy squints at him. “Are you new here?”

“I’m, uh, I’m Ranboo,” the enderman says, taking a step back, “yeah, who are you, exactly?”

“Tommy.” He frowns, poking at Ranboo’s arm. “You’re half-enderman, what’s the other half?”

Ranboo blinks. “I have no idea.”

“Huh.” Tommy looks him up and down. “Cool. Do you want to stay here?”

The answer, as always, is _yes._

_(Ranboo and Tubbo get along swimmingly. It’s irritating. Tommy wouldn’t have it any other way.)_

* * *

“Tommy,” Phil calls from where he’s perched on one of the big, sturdy oak trees atop the floating island, “come here and let me fix your wings.”

Tommy, from where he’s seated on the ground, having just flipped a beetle back onto its feet, scowls and sticks his tongue out at Phil, making an incredibly eloquent noise that can only be described as _hellspawn._ Phil cringes, but beckons him over, still.

“They’re just fine, man,” Tommy whines, “I don’t know why you get so bothered about _my_ wings.”

“Tommy,” Phil says with the air of a warning, “just come over here and let me fix your fuckin’ feathers.”

That earns a groan and plenty of grumbled swearing, but he does cross over to Phil’s tree. Phil hops down and gestures to the ground. “Sit.”

“I’m not gonna sit on the fuckin’ ground.”

Phil sighs. “You literally just were--fuck it, I don’t feel like bothering, _sit down.”_

Tommy sighs, long-suffering and drawn out, teasing a laugh out of Phil as he plops down in the dirt. Phil settles behind him, and Tommy stretches out his wings.

Phil immediately starts working some sort of _fucking magic,_ because he presses a strong hand against the muscles in Tommy’s wings and everything slows down, a sort of warmth spreading through him as Phil massages the exhausted, strained muscles and straightens out his feathers. It’s like the physical embodiment of honey, this warmth and this comfort that preening brings, and Tommy lets himself melt into it a bit.

He hears Phil snort as he sort of tilts forward, and an arm comes around to brace him against Phil’s chest so he doesn’t fucking faceplant into the dirt.

He can’t say how long it goes on for. Just that it feels fucking _amazing,_ and maybe he doesn’t mind preening all that much if it’s like that every time.

“How,” he says once Phil’s all done, drowsy and feeling like he’s just been sunning like a goddamn cat, “the fuck did you do that.”

Phil laughs, light and amused as he straightens out the last few feathers. “The wings are a vulnerable spot, mate. You don’t let just anybody mess with them.”

 _He would know,_ some tiny part of Tommy’s brain says. He isn’t sure why, but he believes it.

“How old are you, anyways?” Tommy leans back on his hands, stretching his wings out.

Phil laughs again, though it’s more startled this time. He reaches out to ruffle Tommy’s hair.

“We’ll just leave it at old, yeah?” Phil ruffles his feathers, and clambers to his feet. “You wanna go to the nether? I need blaze rods.”

Tommy reaches for his outstretched hand, pulling himself to his feet.

“Sure,” he says, grinning, ignoring the part of him whispering _you are not the one he should be doing this with._

He doesn’t quite know why he wants to go adventuring with Phil so much, but he does know that it’s one of the most exciting things he’s ever gotten to do. So of course he says yes.

Phil shows him the old ruined portal he’s been working on fixing up, and even lets him light it. It’s gotta be one of the coolest things Tommy’s ever done, lit a literal portal to fucking _hell--_

“Alright,” Phil says, grinning, spreading his wings, “let’s go.”

* * *

They meet Jack in the nether, all fire and quite possibly the funniest bastard Tommy’s ever fucking met, aside from maybe Wilbur. He’s got the blood of a blaze and blaze rods to prove it, arms made of fire that twist in the air around him, wielding an extra sword or axe or what-have-you.

“You know your way around the fortress, then?” Phil asks, eyebrows raised.

“Sure do.” He looks the two of them up and down. “So if I help you, you’ll help me?”

“Of fuckin’ course we will, man, what--do you think we’re just gonna leave you here?” Tommy scoffs. “That’d be stupid.”

Jack shrugs. Ultimately, he shows them to the blaze spawner.

He comes home with them. None of them even really consider an alternative.

They all know that this is just how it’s meant to be.

* * *

What the little fledgling phoenixes haven’t realized, yet, is that there is something… _sleeping_ in the earth.

There are long, deep, thin cracks that surround their settlement, a circle carved deep into the ground. It smells of sulfur and ozone and something rotten, something noxious and awful and vaguely, _vaguely_ sweet, and occasionally a green plume of smoke comes spilling forward from the stone like smoke from a dragon’s mouth.

The dragon, however, sleeps restlessly beneath the earth, recuperating from the last time he’d risen.

It had ended rather poorly for all of them.

The dragon is stirring, though. Not awake yet, but growing closer.

For now, it lays dormant, and it _dreams._

**Author's Note:**

> new series new series new series!!! i'm v excited about this!!
> 
> tysm for reading! i hope you enjoyed! b sure to follow me on tumblr, twitter, & twitch @ cacowhistle for more updates and to catch whenever i stream!


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